


Beneath it all

by PeppermintPalimpsest



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Afterlife, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mental Instability, POV Patroclus, Pain, Regret, River Lethe, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeppermintPalimpsest/pseuds/PeppermintPalimpsest
Summary: He would laugh, if he knew why. “That name stranger - is one I haven’t heard in a long time.” These words came easy - if he didn’t think how his mouth formed them. A half forgotten moment, and the meaning fades. He is robbed of even his own meaning.In an instant, the stranger before him crumples.*Patroclus takes more than a sip of the river Lethe. And Achilles finds him - far too late.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51





	Beneath it all

**Author's Note:**

> TW for Patroclus not having the capacity to consent to sexual contact, as well as a severely reduced capacity to care for himself. Nothing is acted upon - and Achilles does nothing more than hug and kiss him - but the suggestion is there that he can’t quite understand what is happening around him.

Across the bridge was a door he no longer knew what for. The man had once, how long before he couldn’t say, crossed it. Sat himself down in silken grasses and waited.

It dripped from him. First - and he never knew quite how accurate any of this was - the names. The man was rather good at names once. It never needed to be plucked from his memory. Each item had been neatly ordered - ready to spill from his mouth.

Now an attempt took from him. He would writhe for it, reaching, searching in the dulled waters of his mind. The man would seize something, bright and silver in his hand - before the wretched thing would fumble and fling itself back into the mud.

He would let it go.

*

Other times, he could. It was fished up from the water. In precious moments, gelded perfect moments - the man could see it before him. The rest of the plants that surrounded him. The columns on his sides. The door. He stood. He could walk now.

The legs were shaky. Clustered beneath him, joints full of sand. When he managed it, the feeling bubbled and frothed against his insides. The name was lost for it, but the feeling was sweet enough to make his mouth water and his fingers clench.

He would wonder, a wall. Another wall would appear to the side, and he could trace down it with a finger. Feel the bumps and cracks along it. The wall. Another wall would appear to the side, and he could trace down it with a finger. Feel the… it felt good against his hands. His finger felt smooth after, and the sensation tingled. This was a pleasant thing, and he did it as often as he could.

His voice - it echoed in the empty halls of Hades, and the echo did not comfort him.

The shock of water came quick and hard. It sunk - cool spear through his side, forcing itself through the half of him. He spluttered, coughing and shaking and rattled. It unfolded within him, an unbroken roaring thought underpinning each new wave of pain.

A name! He knew it - the sounds on the edge of him. He called it, felt up the stretch of his neck. When he called it would move - the bump of his throat moving up - up - and down. Mouth open, throat relaxed with the first sound. The second, he pushed it down between his teeth. Something adjacent to a hiss, rounding with a touch of tongue to teeth. Thirdly, a sound that came from deeper down, squashed down to a bubble at the front of his mouth before his lips. Another hiss - a real hiss this time.

That name.

He said it, forced each movement, each sound an effort beyond effort. Over and over. An eternity spent here - the last name he could form between his teeth. It was all he could do - that meaningless name was all his cursed husk could think to make. Into the spinning darkness he shouted it. It changed in texture, growing denser. Thicker in his throat, yet unbroken despite the pain roiling from his throat. Time stood still, then shoved him down to earth.

Rattling out of him, he howled out the only sounds he could make on his own. The man raged alone in his unending shame. He awoke in his nightmare again, all grace and skill stripped from his body. Face pressed in dirt - an animal sound came from his crumpled form. He was cursed beyond all things here, idle and empty in value.

It would fade. The River Lethe had no soul; it doled no mercy but what his own mind granted to him. Some night he spilled the brackish liquid into his mouth, holding out for hope that this would strip the last of him. Cut the rotten core from him. Eventually, the pain would fade back - sluicing down him. Hot water his back, melting him down into thick globules of fat that soured on his tongue.

Not one moment does he miss it. The missing of it - where it could be or what it is. The hollow within him, ancient, before he began carving pieces off of himself.

He would wake here again. Fish for slivers, sinking further and further into his being.

*

There was a stranger here.

Among the shades that rested near his patch of grass, this one cut itself apart from the others. It remained near a stoop, pale appendages resting against the stone column. It was much unlike his own. He watched his hands, darker than the river stones. They clenched, sliding across the grass. For years - or hours - and then he felt him moving.

A foot in sandals, sharp and pointed at him. _Podarkes_ , clad in darkened leather. Attached to a shade, clothed in a blue tunic and cape. It had bracers, patterns sliding up its hands. Much unlike his own - this stranger had skin near white as whalebone. Milky and sparkling in the light of Elysium. The hair was a tumble of molten gold, brighter than any polished obel. Cascading over his shoulder in coils upon curl, an ample banquet of _pyrrha_ for his weary gaze. A thin nose, proud and elegant and without a crook. They lead up to strong eyebrows, creasing in the centre.

Below that, eyes. The eyes were difficult - harder to measure. Subtle in ways his mind could no longer understand. A closing could mean any number of things. Emotions he knew - it was once obvious to him. He had known, a haunting glimpse of what he had once known. The man knew it was no use - too far and faded to be found again.

Yet, the eyes drew him. Dimly watching, the man watched the stranger in silence. This.. the man noticed - a gentle press upon his chest. It was a moment, searching his breast with a hand, before he knew it came from within. A curling, twisting sensation between the ribs. That - that was not a pleasant feeling. Nothing like the grasses, nothing like the wall on his fingers.

The beauty - it carved something out of him. His hands fluttered at his sides, searching for an offering to give. Something so well placed, each feature built upon the rest. Carved marble in the form of a shade, a step up and another that beckoned for his touch. It pained, it hurt. It was not a pleasant feeling. After death - his own half remembered in sleep and forgotten upon waking - it was not supposed to hurt anymore. Not like this. Looking up at the stranger, both bruising and soothing him in each moment, he called it out.

Open mouth. A crack of sound at back of his mouth. Tongue against teeth. Pocket of space. Hiss.

In an instant, the stranger before him crumpled. Its face dropped, gilded ribbons dripped over its closed eyes. The sound he made, it rumbled out from his very core. Heavy on his tongue. Upon the repeat, the shade shook before him, shoulders moving up. Down.

The eyes - he wanted those again. To view their blue. The gaze filled his mouth with warm saliva, flooded his lungs with petrichor.

He spoke it again, and the shade lifted. Reddened spots on its cheeks, marble softening to flesh. It stumbled as it stood, moving towards him. Lips opening, _latreia_! It’s mouth was a lyre, soft sounds running over his shoulders. Sweet river water, nothing brackish - over the cracks and seams of him. Pleasant, it made his skin prickle and thorn. He wanted - and that was more strange - wanted that sound closer.

It bubbles up, a slimy saccharine thing.

_Aristos Achaion_.

He couldn’t say it, mouth clammed and tongue unwilling. He couldn’t understand it, thoughts dull. Blunted even in the face of this shade. He couldn’t remember - but he knew he would have known a shade like this, had he seen it before. The scent of it, almonds and earth, bright and pleasurable. It’s touch, one of reverence - skin smooth as polished aspen. The presence would have ached in his bones, even blind and deaf - even in death and in the end of all things.

A wet laugh echoed from it, gurgling in the pit of him. Why… the corners of him mouth were turned up. A smile, lips that sliced into it.

Then it opened it’s mouth to speak.

A name. It tumbled from his lips - three coins clinking against marble.

_Pa - tro - clus_

He would laugh, if he knew why. “That name stranger - is one I haven’t heard in a long time.” These words came easy - if he didn’t think how his mouth formed them. A half forgotten moment, and the meaning fades. He is robbed of even his own meaning.

Stranger. The face before him shivers, moving quickly. The expressions were difficult now. A frown, the twisting of a lip. Something was being said - but the man named Patroclus did not know. The crease of the eyebrows made him wonder - perhaps anger? Or something akin to sadness?

When he looked closer - of as close as he could through the smoke - there were fingers. Five of each on a palm - much like his own but pale. They were in front of him.

Curious, he tugged on it. A sliver of a thought, something bubbling up from down below. It came to a head, bursting out of the fog. It sang, voice airy. It smelled, a waft of blood - of shit - sweat of war and sleepless nights. Wrath of the _Myrmidons_. The rage, the-

_Grief._

The stranger was grieving. And the stranger was grieving for _him_.

It had hands. Pale hands, unlike his own. They clasped at its own mouth, tucking the sounds beneath a blanket of flesh. The shoulders were moving - he remembered it was _grieving_ \- each tremble and shake a savage reminder. This was his doing. What had the man said again?

“Stranger,” the word puttered out, iron brand on his lips. One cut, and another. That word was hurting it. Making it feel how he felt. Falling in the river Lethe, the pain in his ~~legs~~ , ~~knees~~ , ~~chest~~ , ~~ribs~~ , ~~head~~ -

The gaze.

That was a gaze that threatened to slice; to hack his flesh away and eat him raw.

His hands reached out before he did. Across the _aspetos_ , space between them parting and falling away. The shade had coiled into it’s arms - and the man knew of nothing when he pushed forward. Pressing a hand against his sunken cheek.

_Patroclus_.

_Patroclus_ -

_Patroclus_.

The man called Patroclus ached with unknowing. The shade knew - knew the form he had been before. Saw him, saw his blunted figure, and recognized the image he had once resembled. Words - he wanted to speak, yet his body no longer listened. The shade stared up at his body, a wasteland of lost memories. Reached up, and cradled his hand against his own.

And it shook him to his core.

He said the word he knew how to say, the name his mouth still remembered how to form. Again - and the shade could not hide it’s shivering form. He held the cheek, ran his insensitive fingers across his flesh. Up close, his skin was speckled. A smattering of stars. In his mind’s eye, a glass was thrown. Shattered against a white wall. Glass shards, refracting and sparkling over marbled steps. He was known in his aching, wretched up and wreaked - ruined and indelible. Wasted, and wanted.

From this face, would he not accept anything? As long as it came from the strangers lips, would he not accept the end of the world?

It held, pressing fingers to it. The skin - the touch was needed. Pulling away would break the stranger. He quaked as the shade cried, tears trickling over their clasped hands. A thundering of sorrow, binding them in salt. The eyes, bright as half remembered summers, were narrowed. He wanted to tug it lose, the tight string round their hearts. The man knew it - felt it within him. Squeezing and pulsing within his chest, sorrow swelling in his heart.

The shade shook, head shaking back. Then forward again, lip bitten near white.

He needed to pull it back from the edge he had put it on. Pull _him_ back. The shade needed him, and he needed something he could never have. Never again - even the capacity for memory had failed him. He would forget this all, he would lose all knowing of this - all knowledge of this disintegrating.

But he didn’t matter anymore.

Leaning forward, his lips met the stranger’s. Fresh tears fell over his cheeks - his or _his_? The shade clasped him, barely breathing as a hand - much like his own - met his cheek. Dug into his facial hair, tugging him closer. Deeper in each other, mouth working against his.

He was _soft_. The man named Patroclus thought he knew what that meant - but it was more. More than he could remember, each moment flickering by. Crystalized in his heart, shattering - left him hanging on each semi-known second before it. He was here - _Pyrisous_ \- for the first time in eons. This felt good. This was a devastation.

He protested as the shade pulled back. The shade took a heavy breath, brushing back his hair. Clearing his face of all that could block his view. Veneration in each touch, serenity in his gaze. Nothing cutting, nothing broken beyond what he held within himself. He wanted to touch him, feel his skin further. The hurt in him - his disconnect - his lack of self - the stranger was balm upon his wounds. The salve on his burn, the dressing, the stitch, the half of him that made only sense to be there.

But the stranger smiled. Laced his hands into worrying hands. Held to help the hurt.

The shade made a worrying noise - eyes trickling downwards.

He had not noticed the tunic. He had not moved much - this was from before his arrival. His own tunic - not like the blue of the stranger’s tunic. It left him exposed, naked to the side. The binding at his hip had loosened, or perhaps he had thrown the sleeve off while he crawled or howled. Where he sat, legs apart, he could see his genitals. Hands too pale to be his own - the stranger, he reminded himself again - ran up his shoulder. Gently pushed his arm up, and reached for his hip. A dark cliff jutting from him, a line down to his groin.

For a brief moment, he believed the momentum would fall through. That the stranger would reach between his legs - though he couldn’t imagine why the stranger would be interested - or even why the thought itself arose.

But he did not, and could not. The raiment was pulled, cloth sliding against his skin. A familiar step, the redressing of himself by another. He closed his eyes, accepting the touch. Willing himself to carve the memory to stone in his mind. If he could remember, if he could just remember even a sliver, a sharp golden memory - he could accept the loss of the rest of him. The loss of him was worth it.

Wet cloth pressed against his neck. He almost jerked - he didn’t know how much more Lethe he could handle. There was no scent - no drowsy numbness that accompanied the gentle brush against his cheeks. Insides twisting in pleasure, he leaned into the sensation, closing his eyes. With reverence, the stranger cleansed his cheeks and neck of sticky salt. Cooling his skin with clean, sweet water. He hadn’t realized his tears.

Carefully, for he knew to be kind here, he reached up. Slid a hand between them, brushing a finger along his bracer. Trickled down, arriving at a fertile _Phthia_ \- delicate veins and muscles. The shade pulled them off, revealing panes of pale skin. He pressed his fingers to him, felt the movement as the shade shifted his fingers. The cloth brushed at his neck, pausing at the collarbone.

Sounds fell from the stranger’s lips, soft trinkets that scattered out into the grasses. He wished to collect them, hold them up to his ear - but they were gone. Fast between his fingers, fish he could not catch in time.

“-Patroclus,” he said again, hand clenching. One where his hand met his thigh, and the other around the cloth. “- Patroclus-” other words were spoken and lost. No more than a flood of sounds filling his ears. He clenched again, hard. Water dripping down his forearm.

And then he made to stand.

Patroclus scrambled to follow, legs of wood trembling beneath him. The man - he was leaving. The close of his eyes, the hesitation in his step - it was shame. The shade made to move, no longer looking at him. He spoke, a rumble of words he didn’t recognize. He needed to stay, the stranger couldn’t leave now! He would forget it all - forget everything and fall back into ruin.

The shade looked down upon him, shoulders frozen. Patroclus held at his heel, murmuring promises, pleas, cries for him. If he would only stay - if he would only stay…

His arms wrapped around him, tight enough to hurt. The shade shook his head, fiercely holding him. Hands upon hands brushed back his hair, tugging on the curls. Hard lips, crushing lips were pressed into his forehead, melody of sorrow on his lips. Another, thumb brushing his beard back. Quick lips, tugging his lifeless breath from him. The shape of him - it was a promise.

A promise to return.

So he let go.

_______________________________________________________________________________

 _Podarkes_ \- A name meaning “swift-footed”, another name Achilles is known as.

_Pyrrha_ \- the name Achilles took when disguised as a girl on Skyros as an attempt by Thetis/Peleus to keep him safe from the war.

_Latreia_ \- Worship

_Aristos Achaion_ \- The best of the Greeks

_Myrmidons_ \- Soldiers commanded by Achilles

_Hack his flesh and eat him raw_ \- Reference to Homer. Iliad. 22.337, when Achilles tells Hector (the man that killed Patroclus) that it is hopeless to expect Achilles to treat his dead body with respect, declaring that: “Would that in any wise wrath and fury might drive me to carve thy flesh and myself eat it raw - such agonies you have caused me.”

_Aspetos_ \- Achilles’ name in Epirus, meaning inimitable or vast.

_Pyrisous_ \- “Saved from the fire”, Achilles first name.

_Fertile Phthia_ \- Said by Achilles (“with good weather, I might arrive on the third day in fertile Phthia”) when threatening to set sail for home and leave the battle of Troy after Agamemnon takes Briseis from him. Also connected to the Greek word _phthisis,_ meaning consumption, decline; wasting away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies! If you want more, or have any requests - leave a kudos, pop down to the comments and let me know! More feedback makes it more likely I'll write more!
> 
> See ya'll next time!


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